There Are Ghosts In The Walls
by meganface
Summary: Mickey didn't expect Ian to be at his door. He lets him in though, probably always will. Ian/Mickey. R&R.


**Basically the Milkovich family tree is far too complicated and unspoken for me to have a firm grasp on it so I'm making up my own rules: all the kids share the same mom and dad, which is doubtful but whatever. **

**I can't tell if this is overly sappy or not.**

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Mickey's mom had a dove carrying an olive branch tattooed onto her wrist. The blade she used to open up her veins sliced through its middle. Mickey found that morbidly symbolic. She'd bled out in their bath, painting the white tiles red and her family broken.

Mickey has never forgiven her for it because how the fuck could he? His mom may have been a junkie, almost always doped up, but she was _good_, right down to her core. Who that kindness got passed onto, Mickey has no fucking idea.

But he has this box - a shitty wooden thing he made for a class back when his mom convinced him to give a shit about school - that he keeps under his bed, right at the very back corner away from the greedy, thieving hands of his family. There's not a lot in it, hardly anything actually, but it's the first thing Mickey'd grab if his house was on fire. He'd rather the only the only proof of his mom's crappy existence to remain intact; the blood stain on their bathroom floor can fucking burn.

There's a picture of his mom and Mandy who's about ten. They're sat on the front porch, Mandy between his mom's legs getting her hair braided. They look so alike that it almost angers Mickey; their smiles and their thick dark hair. The sun is shining brightly on them and his mom's tattoo is highlighted. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it's the first thing Mickey looks as because he can't forget how it looked painted blood-red.

That isn't all he keeps in there: a scrap piece of paper that she always used to doodle on when on the phone, flowers and stars and cartoon people; the last lighter that she owned, ugly as fuck and bright pink; half of a scarf she'd begun to knit, something she did when she'd taken speed and just had to be doing something with her hands; and a little picture of himself, aged two according to the writing on the back, that he'd found in her purse when he was looking for money to buy some weed off of Joey's friend. It was the only thing in her purse at the time but Mickey stole it anyway.

On the sixteenth of every month Mickey will open it and just stare at all this stuff that he has; all this shit that shouldn't mean a damn thing yet means everything. He was a little prick to his mom most of the time; was a prick to everyone. Still is really, bar maybe Mandy and that fucking idiot he can't quit. His mom never shouted at him, never made fun of him like his dad did. On the sixteenth of every month Mickey will open the box and stare at what he has left of his mom and then smoke whatever weed he has left. He can never bring himself to do anything heavier.

Tonight is no different. Except it is because after only the first drag of his joint someone knocks on the front door. The house is empty - it always is when he does this, that hasn't escaped his notice, and he thinks the rest of his family are doing whatever the fuck they do to deal with his mom being nothing more than a rotting corpse. Mickey rubs his eyes at the thought. The point is, nobody is coming home tonight. Fact. So why the fuck is there someone pounding on his door at nearly one in the morning?

With a shout of "shut the fuck up, I'm comin'!" Mickey gets up off of his dirty floor, leaves his joint balanced in an ashtray, and makes his way to the front of the house. And why is Ian here? At his _house_ of all places. "The fuck are you doin'?" he asks, voice slow and his words slightly slurred.

Ian frowns at him for a long few seconds. "We were supposed to meet. At the dugout."

Faintly, somewhere in the back of his mind, Mickey does remember setting that up. He shrugs, swipes a hand down his grey wife-beater. "Yeah, well, clearly that didn't happen. Still don't answer my question."

"I thought you forgot or something..." Ian trails off and his eyes wander over Mickey's body. It isn't like the usual once overs Ian gives him; there's not the promise of a good fuck behind it. It seems almost - Mickey doesn't know what, but it leaves him feeling awkward. "Are you okay?" Ian asks, taking a step closer, one of his hands coming up like he's about to cup Mickey's cheek.

Mickey slaps his hand away and scowls at him. "Shit, Gallagher, fuckin' - don't bring that shit to my house."

With what sounds like an irritated sigh, Ian lowers his hand. "Whatever," he mutters. "But seriously Mickey, you look like shit. What's wrong?"

It's times like these that Mickey feels something like regret mingling inside of him, regret that he and Ian had some sort of half-assed conversation about fucking feelings and not fucking around with other people anymore. Now Ian is a little more open with showing that he cares about Mickey - something that's straight up idiotic if you ask him - and he, somehow, manages to get Mickey to be a little less of a cunt around him. Still, Mickey doesn't really know how to care, or - no, he does, but he doesn't know how to show it. Tonight, well, Mickey can't be fucked to keep up the pretense of not giving a shit.

He opens the door a little further and nods his head backwards. "Get your ass in here, for fucks sake," he mutters then rolls his eyes at Ian's small, pleased smile.

The house really smells like weed. That's what Mickey first realises when he steps back in after breathing clean air for a minute. Next, he realises that Ian isn't in the living room and like, why the fuck would he be? Mickey forgets the state he left his room in long enough to get a couple of beers from the fridge. He nearly drops them when he remembers.

Ian is crouching down where Mickey was sat only minutes ago. There's no sign that he's moved or even touched anything. Mickey's glad for that.

"Move," he orders. Ian looks up at him - hazel eyes wide and concerned - before standing and taking the offered beer. Mickey hastily puts all of the things back into the box and moves to his bed with it. Eyes down, head bowed, he waits for whatever Ian has to say. He can feel the tension in his shoulders, feels it in the hunch of his back, the grip his fingers have on the wood in his hands.

"Was that you?" Mickey looks up at Ian with his eyebrows raised. "In the," Ian points to the box in his hands, "in the picture. The little kid - was that you?"

That really wasn't what Mickey expected. He mumbles, "yeah", and locks the box before pushing it back under his bed. He's stood facing the wall when Ian's fingers settle on his waist. Surprisingly, it doesn't feel as gay and girly as it probably looks and even if it did Mickey's too fucking exhausted to give a shit. He's slowly turned around before Ian backs him up and he has no other choice but to sit on his bed.

Ian kneels between his parted thighs, his hands hot where they are on Mickey's legs. "I'm sorry that so much shit has happened to you," Ian whispers and when he begins to tug down Mickey's sweats, Mickey thinks he's going to blow him or something, but he doesn't. He just pulls them off then stands and takes off his shoes, t-shirt and jeans and nods expectantly at the bed.

Catching on, Mickey sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Come on, you know you can't stay."

"I'll be out before anyone gets back. Promise."

Mickey doesn't even argue with that because actually sleeping with Ian sounds appealing. Shit, he's so fucking gone it isn't even funny.

They settle together under the covers. The bed isn't exactly built for two people and Ian's broad shoulders take up most of the room so Mickey turns on his side to face the wall. It shouldn't surprise him that Ian shuffles in behind him and, Christ, starts to practically fucking spoon him, but it does.

"Jesus," he grumbles, "you gotta be so gay about this?"

Ian snorts and butts his forehead against the nape of Mickey's neck. "Yeah," he whispers.

And when the sound of the front door wakes him up at six in the morning, his back is no longer heated by the warmth of another body; annoyingly, it's something he misses straight away.

But the house feels different now; settled, a little less chaotic. Mickey feels like maybe some of the peace that had died along with his mom has come back. Maybe.

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**This is really fucking random, I know, but it popped into my head and was a pleasant distraction from the writer's block I have with A Move Too Far. Reviews would be much appreciated :)**


End file.
